


The Frozen Section of Walmart

by YellowDistress



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Awkward Hugs, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 16:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDistress/pseuds/YellowDistress
Summary: Peter didn't necessarily tell the truth about his stab wound, but no one had asked.





	The Frozen Section of Walmart

**Author's Note:**

> Another little oneshot idea I had. Hope you guys enjoy!

It felt like the frozen section of Walmart.

Peter couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was this vivid memory of being a kid. It was summer time, so his mother had dressed him in shorts (overalls maybe, and the funny thing was, this was one of the few memories he had of his mother). Being dressed in shorts, and his mother was looking in the frozen section and it was so cold, and his little body trembled and God, he thought he’d never be warm again. He thought he’d never get the shivering from his muscles and bones and then…Well, they had walked outside, and the blazing weather had rescued him from the ache that had settled in his toes where they were exposed in his tiny sandals. Where his fingers were turning pale.

Peter put his fingernails between his teeth. He chewed and the anxiety built up was kind of funny, kind of not. Standing outside of the penthouse where the snow had begun to fall, and he prepared for the _worst_ scolding of a lifetime. His other hand caressed below his hoodie that wasn’t made to fight such weather, and yet he wore it anyway because he had come straight from school when the text had rung his phone and he had looked down and –

**Mister Stark: **My place. Today.

I’ve got Decathlon

**Mister Stark: **It’s not Wednesday.

Why do you use punctuation in texts

**Mister Stark: **3:30.

It left little room for argument. Happy had shown up, as if by clockwork, and Peter had tried to disappear within the crowd of students fleeing the school after a long day of the restrooms smelling like sewage backup, but Happy had found him nonetheless and had practically kidnapped him. For the first time in his life, Peter felt safer at school, even with Flash there and he stared at the daunting penthouse that was waiting for him and Happy’s car door shut behind him and there was one simple statement:

“Your fault.”

Peter turned, hand still pressing into his stomach, “My fault?”

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Peter actually felt anger, face burning and mouth quivering because for some reason when he was angry, it made every emotion within him pounce and try to attack him at once. He wasn’t going to cry per se, and his snarl was nothing dangerous, but these emotions were. Peter continued, “He didn’t ask.”

Happy rolled his eyes, taking his shoulder before pushing him towards the entrance. Not overly forceful, just enough to let him know there was no escaping what was about to come. Peter swallowed, not accepting his fate but knowing he was going to have to go inside. Peter was greeted by a fancy looking doorman and marble floor, and Peter had been to the penthouse before – but usually they met at the Compound or Stark Industries for the internship. Things like that. This had somehow turned personal and he wasn’t sure how he got there in the first place, despite his hand still touching the tender place on his abdomen.

Their shoes echoed, a marching band bringing them to the elevators, like Peter was entering an arena. Maybe he was being dramatic as hell, but he couldn’t help the nauseating threat. They entered upon a chiming above their heads and Happy pressed the button to the penthouse, swiping some kind of access card. Peter looked at the ceiling where it was lined with dark wooden cuts and Peter ground his teeth together before saying, “This is stupid.”

“Really?” It was a sarcastic tone, one that decided it could not believe what Peter was insisting.

“Yes,” Peter looked at Happy, “So stupid. Its been three days. Three. And only now I’m getting into trouble –“

Happy scoffed, “Point is, three days shouldn’t have passed before anyone found out.”

“But –“

“No buts,” Happy held up his index finger, “Actually, no nothing, this is Tony’s area. It’s not my job to scold you – he’ll do it enough for the both of us. Just know though, I think your decision was stupid and irresponsible.”

Peter pouted. But silenced himself, looking away into the glass window out upon the city and inwardly begged to escape. Happy was not on his side. Mister Stark most certainly would not be. No one had even told him what this was all about, but he knew well enough. There wouldn’t have been a random text in the middle of the day had it not been a big deal. Peter breathed through his nose, welcomed an involuntary heart palpation, and the doors slide open to release them into what Peter favored to refer to as: doom.

It was lonely, to work with only adults. He longed for someone who understood him, who could relate to what it was like to not be trusted. Had what happened, happened to someone like Mister Stark, this three-day period would have meant nothing and the tender spot on Peter’s abdomen would have been a simple memory. Something suppressed and put away for a later day of trauma recounting. See, Peter could not grow if he was trapped within the bubble wrap that the adults in his life insisted he wear. He was a child – he got that, but he was capable of enough to…to do things.

The foyer was silent, but Happy led and Peter had half a mind to turn back into the elevator and take it to the ground floor. What could Tony do, really? What could he do? He wasn’t his dad, but he could call Aunt May and tell her and God, that would be a mess. Considering Aunt May was out of town for her charity work, and that was the only reason Peter’s three-day bed rest had been able to be accomplished. She would be pissed and scared and worried and Peter couldn’t do that to her, so he followed Happy into the living room and towards a set of stairs where Peter knew the workshop was.

Great, great, great.

Friday didn’t greet them as they descended, as Happy put in a code, and as they entered a room where music was blaring. This shop was nothing compared to the one at The Compound. He imagined it didn’t compare to what Avenger’s Tower used to be either before it was sold and done away with. Peter thought about the people who used to live behind those walls, heroes that were a family and then the heroes that ran away, escaped, turned their backs and Peter wanted to be on everyone’s side, but how could he do that when Mister Stark was his friend?

Mister Stark was at one of the workbenches, a blue holoscreen reflecting from his face as he scrolled through several blueprints. Peter tilted his head, looked at the ground as Happy announced their presence over the music, “Boss!”

Mister Stark didn’t look up, but his hand waved, the music silenced.

“Give us a sec, Hap.”

The way Peter could tell Mister Stark was fuming was because Happy turned. He left. And he didn’t argue. Usually, if Peter was scolded Happy wanted to watch, but now he said nothing and he retreated and Peter imagined Mister Stark taking a pair of scissors, Peter’s suit, and slicing it to bits and revoking all of his rights to being an intern. Peter was almost hysterical at the idea of it, and he wanted to curl into himself, but Mister Stark beaconed him forward the moment they were alone and ordered bluntly, “C’mere.”

Peter took careful steps, sneakers squeaking against the pristine floor below his feet. He nearly cringed, as if the sound would set fire to Mister Stark’s brain and they would all be swallowed within the flames. Mister Stark turned, waving a hand when Peter had moved around the desk to stand a few feet away from him. The blue holoscreen whirled to face Peter as well and on it a diagram of sorts, until Peter’s mind clicked and –

Health chart.

“Would you look at that,” Tony hummed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the table with a strange, daring grimace, “These are vitals from your suit from…let’s see, three nights ago? And I’m just now seeing them because it looks like someone disabled Karen’s Pediatrician Protocol.”

“Pediatrician –“ Peter started defensively but Tony didn’t let him finish.

“Which I happened to notice when I thought today ‘gosh, the kid has been pretty quiet, let’s see what he’s been up to’. And to my surprise, I find that our little spider friend has been stabbed. Did I mention…Three _days_ ago.”

“Right,” Peter exhaled, as if he had been struck, “Okay, yeah that – that happened. But it’s not a big deal. Actually, it was like…Hardly even a scratch and –“

Tony leaned forward quite suddenly. His nonchalance, the grimace, it changed. His teeth were gritted, to the point Peter thought they were about to re-experience the ferry boat incident and he willed himself to be calm. Peter straightened his shoulders and Tony ground the words out as if they were the heaviest things, “Hardly a scratch? Are you forgetting there’s a camera in your suit and I literally watched you struggle to pack the wound for the first ten minutes until you finally ripped the mask of your head? What’d you do then, huh? Pass out? Sleep on the bathroom floor?”

Peter gulped…Right, right he forgot. It was as if the smell refilled his nose, that smell of copper, pennies, and then the floor had hit him, the squeaking of the bathroom door opening, and he stepped out and then – well, he hadn’t felt himself smack into the floor per se, but he definitely knew when it had arrived against his face and tried to dig his fingers into the wound to pack the gauze deeper.

“H…Hallway floor.”

His voice cracked.

Tony looked like he had been given bad news. Finding out ones theories were correct wasn’t always satisfying, Peter found that out some time ago. Peter wrung his hands together, guilty, and he didn’t know why he felt guilty because he had been so sure he had made the right decision and that Happy and Tony were being dumb. But with the words out in the open it felt oddly different and Tony looked away, breathed slowly as if to calm himself down and Peter hoped it worked because he didn’t want an explosion. He was mostly tired. Tony cleared his throat, “Did May find you?”

“May…” Peter almost coughed, “She’s outta town. I’ve been home the past few days. I felt better enough today to go back to school.”

“Better enough,” Tony echoed.

“Yeah,” Peter’s hands were sweating, “I had – I had a fever. It went away pretty quick though, but I kept coughing up…Stuff. Had trouble keeping food down, that kinda thing. But I guess my healing kicked in because the next day the hole had closed and I could keep some crackers down. Then today I got up and…went to school. Kinda just feels like when you get the flu, and you ache.”

Tony was – he wasn’t so good at hiding the emotions in his eyes. Despite the fact that his mouth stayed in a line, his eyes held this rage and pain and frustration, as if he was about to shake the life out of Peter. Peter had never met someone that looked like that, but Mister Stark did and Peter was terribly sorry. Tony moved towards him, “Three days. You spent three fucking days dying and didn’t call anyone.”

“I…” Peter blinked rapidly, as if grasping for a way to explain himself, “Technically it was two days, cause today is the third a-and I wasn’t dying. I swear, if I thought I was, I would have called someone.”

An index finger poked his chest and Peter continued to blink as if he had something in his eyes, as if he was trying to get his brain to catch up with the conversation they were having, as if he was behind everything that was moving through them. Peter tried to think back to what he had said wrong, he thought he had been tactful, but he never was and he supposed he was going to have to live with that. It was just a detrimental personality trait at this point, and Peter was a detrimental trait to Mister Stark, stuck on his hip, and Peter wondered when he would get tired of him and cut him off.

The index finger poked, and a voice snapped, “You are supposed to call when you get hurt. When it happens. The minute you see blood. You know what? Not just when you see blood, but when something fucking – when something hurts, you call. Does that make sense?”

Peter blinked. Slightly startled by the words that had seemingly poured out of nowhere. Like they had erupted from somewhere deep in the ground and had returned much more viciously. This was the ferry boat. ‘Does that make sense?’ felt almost condescending, and Peter tried to be understanding. He swallowed back his argument. His words that wanted to explain and make it understood that his thoughts and everything following it – well, he had a mind of his own and he had plans, and he didn’t wanna be smothered in this odd way. He saved himself, and he took care of it, and he didn’t inconvenience anyone in the process, but now everyone was inconvenienced because here he was, being scolded, time taken out of his mentor’s day and it wasn’t right.

“I was okay, Mister Stark.”

“’Okay’?” Tony narrowed his eyes, leaned in, “I don’t think you understand. I don’t think you get it. I am responsible for what happens to you when you have that suit on. I can’t help you if you disable the protocols I set up to protect you and keep you alive. I can’t help you if you don’t tell someone when you’re hurt. I can’t _be_ there.”

“You don’t have to be,” Peter’s voice cracked again, “I’m…I’m really resilient. I can do this.”

Then the words came…

“I’m not so sure.”

Ferry boats tended to hold the same memories as cold Walmarts. Except the ferry boat was…bullshit and angry and Peter felt that same resentment pile high with the trigger that exploded in his ears and he looked at Mister Stark as if he had just struck him across the face because he thought they had moved on from this and they hadn’t apparently. Peter stared silently, mouth opening, a fish drowning in oxygen. Peter replied, a whisper, “Even after everything? After Toomes, the beach, after I proved to you I could do this, you still don’t believe that I can?”

“Don’t twist words around like that,” Tony held up his index finger again, “I’ve got enough people that like to do that for me already: journalists, reporters, whatever…You’re under the care of the Avengers. What’s left of them, anyway. You’re not old enough to even vote, I’m not letting you jump around in a suit I built unsupervised, so you either abide by the rules or you lose the suit. End of story.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Peter whined stepping closer and shoulders slouching downward.

“It’s not about trust,” Tony hissed, looking Peter square in the face so long, Peter had to avert his eyes, “You’re _fifteen_. And you think disabling a protocol makes me anymore inclined to let you run around? Yeah, _that_ sounds like a good plan.”

Peter’s shoulders continued to slouch. He continued to look away as they were enveloped in a strange and uninviting silence. Peter swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down and he wanted to be sick with anxiety. This was not what he expected when he woke up that morning. Not at all, and his insides twisted with sickness, before Tony exhaled and ordered, “Let’s see it.”

“See what?” Peter looked, eyes round and confused.

“The wound, let’s _see_ it.”

Peter must have been too slow to react, because Tony’s hand shot out, grabbing the hem of his sweatshirt before pulling upward. Peter’s abdomen was exposed and there was no gaping hole there, but instead just a crusty red wound that was healing rapidly, but still in the early stages. Peter almost stepped away, but Tony let out a hiss under his breath as if he knew it had to have hurt. Fingers prodded the tender skin around it, and Peter finally pulled back when it was too close to the wound, making him nauseous all over again from bouts of aching.

“I want someone to look at that.”

“Nooooooo.”

Tony gave a warning stare.

Peter’s mouth shut. He leaned back against the counter and Peter looked down at the floor, tapping the toe of his shoe against it. Peter was confused about himself and his feelings. He tried not to be. Why had he disabled the protocol? Was if because he wanted to be treated as an adult or because he didn’t want to bother anyone? He had slept on the hallway floor, had laid there and had packed the wound and had woken up sweating and hot and smothering. Had cranked the air down, had crawled into his bed and lost consciousness all over again. He had – he had felt like he was dying, and yet he hadn’t called and he didn’t know why.

Tony typed something into his phone. Then when he returned his attention to Peter, he questioned, “How long will May be gone?”

“Two weeks,” Peter murmured, “Charity stuff.”

“Right,” Tony exhaled, “You’re gonna tell her when she gets back.”

Peter’s eyes went round-wide and hurt. Betrayal. Peter stepped back and croaked, “This is why I didn’t tell you.”

“Don’t try to justify hiding a stab wound,” Tony ordered, “You think your aunt doesn’t deserve to know? Trust me kid, I spent years hiding things from people who care about me and all it got me was in some pretty screwed up situations, so excuse me for refusing to allow you to go down that same highway.”

Peter’s face crumbled into desperation, “It’s not the same, you don’t understand. She – she’s not gonna let me do this anymore if she knows I got stabbed. After…after everything that happened, after what – you know what that guy did to us, she doesn’t trust anyone with me anymore. She probably won’t even let me see you anymore. That’s not fair.”

Tony paused, as if Peter’s hysteria had caused him to take a moment. He looked away from his computer screen, and Peter’s eyes were burning, bright red and pink around the edges with tears threatening to make an appearance. Though he wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of Mister Stark. Sometimes that look of reevaluation reminded Peter of Uncle Ben, and the grocery store, and looking into his eyes and thinking he couldn’t understand anything because Peter had been bitten by a spider and now scary stuff was happening. But then he got shot. And Peter decided Uncle Ben had understood more than he ever would.

Maybe Mister Stark did too.

The man’s body twisted to face him again, his palms placed on the edge of the table. Peter shifted uncomfortably, like if he swayed enough the emotion would pass. He looked down at the floor, and Mister Stark breathed, “Look at me.”

Peter did.

_“Pete, look at me.” Uncle Ben ordered._

_Peter did._

_“Sometimes there’s a rough patch. We suffer. But we’re human, we’re extremely resilient. We have to trust ourselves, but most importantly…we have to be brave enough to trust others. Life is terribly lonely when you do it alone.”_

“You can’t do this alone. Understand? It doesn’t work, _trust_ me. Alright?”

_“We’ll talk more, alright Pete?”_

_Peter looked at his Uncle Ben, the door chiming as someone entered._

_“Yes sir.”_

“Yes sir.”

Tony looked startled. But looked away nonetheless. He gestured towards one of the desks in the corner of the room, where Peter was often sent to tinker during his visits or learning sessions. Tony ordered, “Good…alright, well…Go sit down. I’ve got a doc on the way, they can look and make sure you didn’t accidentally close gauze up in your wound or something, fuck that’d be a show.”

Peter was pretty sure he hadn’t, but he nodded and moved towards the corner. Before he did though, Tony stepped towards him, patted his shoulder heavily before flicking a finger under Peter’s chin, pushing it upward.

“Chin up, kid. You make me feel like my dad and I don’t particularly appreciate it.”

Peter’s mouth turned upward.

“You…you make me think of him, you know?”

Tony looked confused, then, “Uhh, I don’t think you met Howard unless you somehow hopped back to the eighties –“

“Not your dad,” Peter swallowed, “My um…you know, my uncle.”

Tony didn’t pale, but he did sober immensely. His mouth didn’t frown, but he looked almost like he shared a type of mourning. Maybe a mourning for what could have been, and Peter wondered if Uncle Ben hadn’t died, if he would have become Spider-Man. If he would have invested so much time into helping people who might not even deserve it. But it had happened. He had met Mister Stark. And life had become something he hadn’t expected it to become. But that was what was good, and Tony was good, and Peter was happy that he had come into his existence.

“Obviously he was a smart guy,” Tony quipped, ever his personality.

Peter stared, and yeah Uncle Ben was very smart. Not in the way that Peter or Tony or Richard Parker had been smart. He had been more of a fan of history, things like that – but still a fucking genius. Peter swallowed, the lump in his throat grew and he looked down, and without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Tony’s chest, hugging tightly. Mister Stark let out a startled sound, and the hug wasn’t someone melted within. It was stiff and awkward, but it was returned when arms wrapped around his shoulders, and a hand patted him between the shoulder blades.

Peter wondered if they were there yet, but Tony didn’t pull away and Peter didn’t cry because the tears dissipated into something else. The Walmart feeling, the feeling of being on the floor and bleeding in the hallway unable to convince himself to call for help, it turned into something different and Peter accepted that.

When he pulled away, Tony gently patted his palm on the side of Peter’s face, didn’t make eye contact, and ordered:

“Alright, to your bench. I’m workin’ on stuff and it would be frowned upon if I let you in the vicinity of tinkering that involves chemicals.”


End file.
